


A Gift for the Fallen

by electricskeptic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Angry Sex, Angst, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricskeptic/pseuds/electricskeptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel is stuck between a rock and a hard place, Dean is his Achilles’ heel, and both attempt to repair their relationship with cheeseburgers, alcohol, and other earthly pleasures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift for the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the deancas-xmas 2010 exchange on livejournal. Title and lyrics from Iron & Wine.

( _I don’t think -_

 _It’s not your job to think, Anael._

Zachariah is smug with his impending victory. Anael bristles with indignant fury, but she knows that she has lost the disagreement just as surely as Zachariah knows he has won.

 _Our sister seems much too concerned with the fates of human sinners,_ Uriel remarks to his comrades. _Perhaps she has… gone native._

Balthazar’s Grace vibrates with silent amusement. Castiel’s does not. On occasion, Uriel reminds him uncomfortably of another brother.

Anael and Zachariah continue their debate, though the exercise is futile. Uriel is impatient, eager as always to smite the unworthy. Balthazar is indifferent, bored with the whole affair. Castiel is ready to follow whichever order is bestowed upon him.

Ultimately, they do not have the luxury of choice. They occupy the lowest rungs of angelic hierarchy, superior only to the cherubs. They answer to Anael; Anael to Zachariah; Zachariah to Michael. Michael answers only to God.

That is the way things have always been. That is the way things will always be. Angels are eternal; unchanging.)

***

New York City, and the first light of dawn is rung in by the bright clash of angelic weaponry. Castiel’s sword collides with Iofiel’s, and the blow sends shockwaves tearing through his Grace.

The civil war has descended from Heaven to earth; angels are, after all, more vulnerable when envesseled. Somewhere nearby, Dean and Sam Winchester hide back in the shadows, in the middle of a case when Castiel’s siblings had descended on him. He can only hope that the humans have sense enough not to interfere.

Angels are dueling all around him; brother on brother, sister on sister - Castiel’s rebels and Raphael’s traditionalists, slaughtering one another left, right and center in this filthy human city. An angel wearing a heavyset Hispanic vessel plummets from the top of a skyscraper, and a hotdog vendor cries out in alarm as she crashes through his stall. Almost immediately, three more converge on her, and a brilliant flash of Grace-light permeates the wash of orange-pink brought on by the rising sun. Castiel feels her death, a tangible thing, but he cannot tell whether she was one of his own.

Iofiel comes back at him again with sword raised, and Castiel barely dodges out of the way in time, snapping his wings out and rematerializing on the hood of a nearby taxi cab at the last second. He parries another attack as his opponent lands beside him, knocking his brother’s sword away before lashing out and slamming his own blade up between the fourth and fifth ribs of the vessel. A momentary look of surprise crosses Iofiel’s face before he screams his last, and Castiel feels the resulting explosion of Grace rip through own being. Fratricide has become a casual detail of his existence, but it is not something that angels were ever designed for.

Castiel senses the pull of something ancient and powerful - _Enochian magic_ \- even as two more angels advance on him, and diverts his attention away from the fight in time to see Dean completing the banishment sigil on the wall of a nearby building. The human’s arm drips fresh blood from a deep wound.

Their gazes catch across the battlefield, and there is a look in Dean’s eyes that Castiel cannot quite place, much to his eternal frustration. In that split second, there is the maddening urge to ask him: _Do you understand now?_

Then Dean slams his bloody palm down in the center of the sigil, and Castiel can no longer think too much of anything as he - along with the rest of his siblings - is wrenched away from this place through time and space. His Grace ignites and his wings burn; then he is dropped in the Nairobi desert, and he battle begins anew.

***

(Anael finds him beneath the shade of a large baobab tree in the Garden. She has not been seen in Heaven for some time, and rumors abound of her disobedience. Still, Castiel stands to attention in acknowledgement of her superiority.

 _Anael._

 _Always with the formalities, Cas,_ and she is fond. She has always favored him above his peers, but this seems different. There is true feeling within her, and Castiel finds it unsettling.

 _Where have you been?_

A pause. _Earth. I have returned only to say goodbye._

It does not take long for Castiel to understand what she’s about to do: _You’re going to fall._ It is not a question, and he cannot keep the accusation from his tone.

 _Yes. You can come with me, Castiel, you’re not like the others. You care about humanity; I know you do. We can fall together._

And she is right in one thing, because Castiel does care about humanity, as he loves all of his Father’s creations. They are works of art, God’s very own masterpieces; but the human who admires the works of Da Vinci does not wish to become the Mona Lisa.

Anael reaches out to him with her Grace, and she does not feel like an angel. Where there should be surety and purpose, she is filled with doubt and conflictions.

 _They_ feel, _Castiel. I want to feel._

 _It is blasphemy._

Anael withdraws; she seems disappointed, and Castiel wishes he did not care. _Zachariah will send you to destroy me. If you won’t come with me, Cas, please don’t find me._

Anael reaches within herself, claws out the energy pulsing at the center of her, the very essence of her being. She screams, and the whole of Heaven screams with her. There is a twinge of… _something,_ deep within Castiel’s own Grace; he cannot say what it is - fear, guilt, regret, sorrow - but the name is unimportant.

Castiel watches his sister fall to earth, and for the first time, he feels.)

***

“Can you even taste food anymore? Now that you’re all… angel-ed up again, I mean.”

Six minutes past midnight, a diner in New Harmony, Indiana; Castiel sits opposite Dean, the pair of them attempting to stake out a faction of renegade angels. Normally, Dean would not involve himself with such things, but he did not know the case for what it was when he started on it, and he is now too deeply involved to quit. He is preoccupied with the knowledge that he is so near to the place from which he was dragged to Hell; Castiel is a welcome - if irritating - distraction. Castiel knows all of this, as he knows every part of Dean. His longing is only to understand the man.

Sam is not accompanying Dean on this hunt, and Castiel is perversely glad of it. The matter of the boy’s missing soul disturbs him in ways he had not previously thought possible. It is small consolation that Dean feels the same.

“Hey. Earth to Cas.”

Castiel blinks, an unconscious human reflex, and pulls his attention back to Dean. Attempts to remember whatever question Dean has asked of him.

“Of course I can still taste it. While I remain in this vessel, I experience physical sensation in much the same way that any human would. I simply no longer have the time to indulge in earthly pleasures.”

One of Dean’s eyebrows arches just slightly. It is an expression that Castiel has come to learn signifies imminent mischief; one he will forever associate with a brothel in Maine, and what should have been his last night on earth.

“You have time now. You can’t go anywhere until your pals show up, right? So _indulge._ ”

“Dean, I do not -”

“ _Cas._ ”

Dean pushes his half-finished burger across the table towards Castiel, looking at him expectantly. Castiel throws him a sour look, but he takes the food obediently, allowing Dean his frivolity if only to avoid discussion of more serious subjects. The burger is not as satisfying as he remembers them being whilst he was under the influence of Famine, but it is still surprisingly good, and he finishes before offering Dean a “thank you” and attempting not to sound entirely ungracious.

“Yeah, whatever, man,” Dean waves him off and leans over the table towards him, suddenly all business. “So you know Crowley’s looking for Purgatory, right?”

“Yes.” Castiel refrains from pointing out that it is only due to the fact that the self-appointed ‘King of Hell’ is not the only one with spies in operation that he _does_ know this, but it is a close thing.

“Any ideas as to why?”

“Perhaps to increase his credibility. It is almost certain that other demons will be contesting his new role. They are not so different from angels, in that regard.” This last, he says with what is almost certainly a wry twist to his lips.

“Huh.” A beat passes between them, heavily pregnant with everything they are leaving unsaid. “Do _you_ know where it is?”

“No. Purgatory is a… neutral territory. The powers of angels hold no sway there.”

Dean appears to consider this for a moment, lips flattening into a thin line. His finger traces random patterns in a pool of spilled salt on the Formica.

“So what happens to you guys when you bite the dust?” He asks after a long moment of this contemplative silence. Castiel stares; he is not at all sure he likes the direction this conversation appears to be taking.

“Why would you want to know?”

“Uh. I don’t know, curiosity? Look, when humans die - guys like me, Sam, Average Joe over there with the Blue Plate special and the half-and-half in his coffee - one of two things can happen: we either wind up in the attic, or we get sent down to the basement. And now thanks to Crowley, we know that vampires and werewolves and shifters, and every other supernatural motherfucker out there, they all get the Purgatory spa break. So I got to thinking, what about angels? And, well, you’ve died a couple of times. Figured you might know.”

Castiel remembers standing in Chuck Shurley’s kitchen and watching it fill with holy light; he remembers the prophet’s hand on his shoulder, a misguided attempt at comfort as he faced down an avenging archangel. He remembers the incredible pain of his Grace being torn apart along with his borrowed body, and he remembers - not waking up, exactly, but simply _being_ again - in the same place before rushing to save the Winchesters from Zachariah. He remembers backing away from Lucifer in Stull Cemetery, terrified and human, and in the next instant he is once again full of Heavenly purpose, watching a battered and broken Dean kneel over the place where Hell had just swallowed his brother. He knows nothing of the times in between; for those few scattered moments, the angel Castiel did not exist.

“There was nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, and he sounds disappointed for some reason. “Maybe you just don’t remember it.”

“No. We are… unmade.”

He doesn’t know how else to phrase it, not in any language that Dean would understand. He sees something shift in Dean’s expression, his brows drawing together in what might be confusion, or maybe concern - though that is probably mere wishful thinking on Castiel’s part. This is something he has never discussed before, the one thing that scares him more than Zachariah or Lucifer was ever able: those moments in which he was _not_. The knowledge that one misstep in battle, one lucky blow from a brother’s sword, could wrench him from existence all over again, and God will not bring him back a third time.

He suddenly finds that he is unable to face Dean; with a thought, he wings himself outside the diner to continue his watch in solitude, under the cloak of invisibility.

***

(Dean Winchester is restless in his sleep; his body twitches and jerks as the deceased do before rigor mortis sets in. Tiny whimpers escape him; sounds like _no_ and _please_ and _help_. Castiel looks into the man’s dreams and sees that they are full of Hell: flames and blood and the stench of despair, Alastair’s slow, lascivious smile as he rolls the blade between his hands.

Castiel has been there once, and it is not a visit he would wish to make again. He extends two fingers to Dean’s forehead and tells him, _sleep_. The body relaxes with a sigh, and Castiel should not be here, but he stays a while longer, watching.

There is a displacement, a shifting in the fabric of the universe, and Uriel stands beside him, looking on in disapproval.

 _You care for him,_ Uriel sneers, as though he cannot conceive of anything more pathetic. Castiel does not reply, concentrating instead on the rise and fall of Dean’s chest with every rush of air in his lungs.

 _You don’t even deny it. Have you forgotten yourself entirely, brother?_

 _My mission is to protect him._

 _Your mission is to guide him into following the will of Heaven, not to sit at his bedside and soothe his nightmares._

Castiel considers pointing out that Dean will hardly be of any use as Heaven’s greatest weapon if he is still incapacitated by his time in the Pit, but it would be a futile exercise. Uriel will believe what he wishes to believe. Castiel reminds his brother of his superiority, but it does little to calm Uriel’s ire.

 _And already you are following Anael’s example. Will you fall as she did, Castiel?_

Castiel glares: _Enough. Leave us._ It is a not a request; Uriel throws him one last contemptuous look before obeying. Castiel remains with Dean until the first traces of sunlight begin to bleed through the curtains, and the younger Winchester’s footsteps fall heavy in the hallway outside, returning from another rendezvous with his demon lover.)

***

Three minutes past one on the morning of December 25th finds Dean sitting on the hood of a rusted-out Toyota in Bobby Singer’s salvage yard, whisky in hand and already two-thirds drunk. He has been rambling to Castiel about irrelevant topics in his prayers for twenty solid minutes before Castiel is able to finish his latest battle and appear before the human.

“If you could refrain from praying quite so loud,” he begins as soon as Dean is aware of his presence, unable to keep his irritation in check, “it would be helpful.”

Dean turns to him and smiles; a wide, bright grin that looks entirely wrong on his face. He holds out his hand as if for Castiel to shake, though Castiel knows enough about human culture to understand that this particular gesture is a formality usually reserved for those not already acquainted.

“Hi, I’m Dean, remember me?”

“There is no need to introduce yourself, Dea-”

“See, you pulled me out of Hell, and then we saved the world together,” Dean continues, as though Castiel has not spoken; as though he does not already know these things. Castiel mentally readjusts his estimation of just exactly how drunk Dean is.

“It is hardly something I could forget.”

Dean snorts, as though Castiel is being amusing somehow. “Yeah? Well, you’ve been doing a bang-up job lately of acting like that was some _other_ angel who went through all that crap with me, so I thought it best to check.”

Castiel does not know how to reply to this; instead, he takes the bottle from Dean’s hands and drinks from it. The sharp taste and the way it burns his throat is familiar, but it does not bring the same comforting warmth as last time, and he is disappointed.

“Seriously, Cas?”

“From what I remember, alcohol was one of the few enjoyable aspects of being human. It would appear it no longer has the same effect, however.”

“Yeah. You ever miss it? Being human, I mean.”

Castiel pauses, unsure of how to answer. When he finally begins, he speaks slowly, choosing his words with careful consideration. “When I was human, I felt pain, hunger, fatigue. I was… quicker to temper, and more easily distracted from the task at hand. It was the weakest I have been, the most distressing experience I have ever had to endure, and there is no reason why I should wish to return to it. And yet… I now occasionally find myself missing it, nonetheless.”

If Castiel could have predicted Dean’s reaction to this confession, for him to laugh would be one of the very last things he would expect. Yet this is exactly what happens, though the sound is entirely devoid of humor as it escapes him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, just… I can relate, you know? Man, you know your life must be bad when the apocalypse is starting to look rosy by comparison.”

Dean shakes his head, still with the same air of bitter amusement. Some of Castiel’s confusion must show on his face, for his companion rolls his eyes and elaborates: “Look, take this time last year; closest thing to a proper family Christmas I ever got. No monsters, no end of the world - just a beautiful woman, and a kid, and all the damn mince pies you can eat. And I didn’t want any of it. Not when… I mean, you remember that last Christmas after Lucifer rose, right?”

Castiel does: they had congregated at Bobby’s house, the four of them, and taken just one day to rest from fighting their impossible crusade. They had just lost two of their number, Ellen and Joanna Beth Harvelle killed by Meg’s hellhounds, and they had all been consumed with varying degrees of guilt and self-doubt, but still Dean had found the energy to torment Castiel about all the little fat golden ‘angels’ on top of Christmas trees, and told him that _“no way in Hell are we going to watch_ ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’, _no matter how much Sammy begs and cries”_ , and things had been almost peaceful in spite of everything taking place in the outside world.

“Things were bad then,” Dean continues, “but I had Sammy and Bobby and you, and it was enough. Now I’ve escaped from the roach motel of suburbia, and things should be back to normal, but Sam doesn’t have a soul, Bobby - well, I guess Bobby’s pretty much the same as ever, but we’re not _close_ the way we used to be, not after a year. And you… I don’t even know you anymore. The Cas I knew wouldn’t have tortured that kid.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Castiel is surprised by Dean’s summation of his character and turns to face him now, seeking out those eyes with his own in an effort to make him understand. “You felt closer to me when I was partially human because you are made uncomfortable by the nature of what I truly am. But this is what I have always been, no matter how far I fell. And I have always been prepared to do what is necessary in order to achieve the ultimate goal.”

He considers pointing out the number of examples in their shared history which have proven this, time and time again: his attempted murder of Jesse Turner the cambion child, an innocent by most people’s standards; forcing Dean to torture Alastair for information, in spite of knowing what it would do to him; releasing Sam from the panic room and in doing so allowing him to free Lucifer, an act which Dean is unaware of to this day. He considers referring to all these events, but he does not, for some selfish part of him still wishes Dean to think him good.

“That’s reassuring, Cas.”

“The truth seldom is.”

“Tell me about it.” There is another pause in which Dean drinks more. “So, Christmas. Got any plans?”

“I have heard rumors of a renegade angel hiding in Phuket. I intend to track her down and convince her to join the revolutionary movement.” At Dean’s incredulous look, he adds, “Angels don’t celebrate Christmas.”

Dean wrinkles his nose, and Castiel tries not to find it endearing. “Really? I thought you guys would be all for it; all that ‘glory to God on high’ crap.”

“Technically, Christmas is a pagan festival. Jesus Christ was a great man, but a man all the same - not the son of God. And there is no evidence that he was born on -”

“Christ, all right, I get it. You sound like Sam. Or at least how Sam _used_ to sound, before he went all Terminator.”

Castiel does not understand what it means to ‘go Terminator’, but he does not bother pointing this out to Dean; it is likely he already knows, and lately he seems to find Castiel’s lack of knowledge regarding human popular culture irritating where once it had charmed him.

“It hardly matters, at any rate,” he says instead. “God is still absent from Heaven.”

“Yeah? You ever get tired of trying to make your daddy proud when he’s never even home?”

“Did you?”

Dean does not reply. They are standing very close now; close enough that Castiel is able to count the spray of freckles across Dean’s face (he does not need to: there are one hundred and seventy-three, and Castiel remembers placing each one in its precise location). Dean runs his tongue over dry lips, and Castiel wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to have those lips pressed against his own. How it would make him feel for Dean’s hands to touch this body that is not truly his own but no longer belongs to anybody else -

Dean lurches forward, and Castiel rights him with a steady hand around his forearm. “You are intoxicated,” he observes needlessly.

“Yeah, well. Best way to be. You are one poor sad bastard if you can’t even get drunk anymore, I’ll tell you that. So… Merry Christmas, huh?”

Dean raises his bottle in a mocking toast and drains what is left of it before dropping it to the ground and walking back towards the house without so much as a backward glance at Castiel. Watching him go, Castiel is fairly certain the emotion he feels now is known as envy.

***

(There is pain; pain like nothing he has ever felt before. Zachariah is cruel and merciless in his torture, and few of his brethren are willing to defend him. Balthazar had tried, but Zachariah is not one to listen to reason, especially not from angels of lesser ranks.

Castiel is held in place by bonds which do and do not exist, chains wrought from wrath and justice. His wings are branded with the sigil for _traitor,_ so that every member of the Host may know his crime. In their true forms, angels do not bleed, but Castiel drips Grace all over Heaven’s floor.

He does not know how much time has passed on Earth, but Heaven is removed from temporality; this moment is both as long and as short every other he has spent in God’s kingdom, less than a nanosecond and more than a billion years.

He is tired.

Zachariah’s four faces overlap, until he cannot tell where one ends and the next begins. The other angel tenderly strokes Castiel’s face with pinion feathers as sharp as any of Hell’s torture devices; the pain intensifies, consuming him. Castiel burns, feels his edges begin to unravel. He screams in his true voice, and the sound of it surprises him, having grown accustomed to hearing it filtered through Jimmy Novak’s vocal chords after so many months on Earth. It is the first sound he has made since the torture began, and he knows it is over. So, too, does Zachariah, for he draws away, smug.

 _You are willing to listen to orders now?_ And he doesn’t wait for a reply before continuing. _You will force Dean Winchester to pledge his allegiance to Heaven. You will find our fallen sister Anael, and return her to me. You will ensure that Sam Winchester breaks the final seal, at all costs. Lucifer will rise, and the Earth shall belong to the angels. Do you understand, Castiel?_

 _…Yes_. And oh, the power that is held within that one little word; power to start a war, power to raise the devil… power to end the world.

 _Such a good little soldier._ The chains fall away; the agony recedes as Castiel’s form heals itself at his superior’s command. Zachariah’s numerous eyes come to rest on his sullied wings.

 _Those marks can stay, I think. Consider them a reminder of what awaits you, should you lose your way again._

Zachariah smirks, and Castiel feels his brother’s love, as remote as it is infinite.)

***

After millennia of acting only as a foot soldier, blindly following orders, Castiel finds himself general of his own army, leading the resistance in battle after hopeless battle. The transition has not been an easy one to grow accustomed to, and he thinks that this is perhaps why he occasionally finds himself responding to Dean as he would a superior in the old order, sacrificing his own plans to do whatever the man asks of him.

Still, Castiel is learning.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Dean rages, pacing the small motel room. His arms gesticulate wildly, making him look faintly ridiculous. “This isn’t a difficult concept, Cas. In case it escaped your notice, your buddy Balthazar almost wiped out an entire goddamn _state_ today.”

“But he did not. And I cannot kill him.”

“Okay. Why the hell not?”

“Because he is my friend.”

Dean gives that humorless laugh again. It is an unattractive sound, Castiel decides. “Yeah, well, Uriel was your friend too, Cas. _Anna_ was your friend. I don’t remember you being all that broken up when _they_ bought it.”

Castiel feels stretched thin, the very last of his patience waning at Dean’s obstinate refusal to understand. Seizing Dean by the front of his shirt, he slams him back into the wall, holding him in place; the human’s face registers surprise for a fraction of a second before curling back into its customary sneer.

“You have _no idea_ what I feel,” Castiel hisses, planting his face barely an inch away from Dean’s. “I have murdered angels - _my_ brothers, _my_ sisters - and I continue to do so, every day. I am despised and shunned by most of my kind, and I cannot truly blame them for it. I do not fight this war because I want to, but because those who do not care for humanity as I do would see it wiped from existence. Dean, I have done everything you’ve ever asked of me. I have killed for you, I have _died_ for you, and still you refuse to show me any measure of gratitude or respect. In spite of all this, I remain your friend, and I still wish to help you when I’m able. But I am not your lapdog, and I don’t follow your orders.”

“That’s right, I forgot; you’re Heaven’s bitch again now, right?”

The last taut thread snaps; Castiel’s wrath is an uncontrollable thing, and he strikes Dean as he has done too many times before, catching him across the jaw. A grunt of pain escapes Dean as his knees give out, and he would surely crumple to the floor if not for Castiel’s iron grip in his shirt. Castiel is blinded by rage in the face of Dean’s arrogance, his ignorance, his entitlement, and he lashes out again, some disconnected part of him fascinated by the way red wells up at the corner of Dean’s mouth.

Though even now, consumed by fury as he is, he maintains enough control to hold back most of his power; to unleash his full strength would shatter Dean into a million pieces. Castiel is more than capable of making him whole again, but so too was Alastair, at one time. If he crosses that line, Dean will never feel safe in his presence again, and he is so, so careful with this fragile thing.

“Cas,” Dean manages, holding his hands up in surrender, and his voice is soft, uncertain, _pleading_ in a way that Castiel has not heard it for some time. He thinks, _Here is a man who saved the world yet lost everything_ , and Dean is a modern day Job, an _Atlas Telamon_ for the 21st century. Castiel is angry with him, always - or at least it seems that way - but he does not wish to bring more pain to one who has already suffered so much.

The distance between them is negligible, but it is too much. Castiel uses the hold he has on Dean’s clothing to tug him closer as he finally succumbs to the eternal temptation and tastes that which he has craved for so very, very long.

Their first kiss is a violent, unpredictable thing, as so many of their interactions are. Castiel knows little of human sensuality, but he _does_ know Dean - knows his preferences and his dislikes, knows of his every sexual experience - and he uses that knowledge to his advantage, tailoring the kiss with exactly the right amount of pressure to suit Dean’s needs and wants. Dean reciprocates almost immediately; Castiel has not left him much room to maneuver, held against the wall as he is, but his hands clench in the fabric of Castiel’s coat, and the way his tongue plunders Castiel’s mouth is more reminiscent of warfare than anything else.

Castiel presses even closer, forces Dean’s legs apart to push his own thigh between them and finds Dean already aroused, the hard jut of him straining against his confining clothing. A choked sound escapes Dean as he writhes desperately, trapped between wall and angel, and Castiel swallows it gratefully before pulling away from Dean’s searching mouth, scraping teeth along a curve of neck and biting down - _there_ \- at the juncture of his shoulder. Castiel tastes sweat, and skin, and the human salt of it is better than the cheeseburgers, better than the whisky; intoxicating, _Dean_.

Dean says, “Cas, I need -”, a broken fragment of a sound, and Castiel pulls back, hauls him away from the wall. He tears Dean’s shirt right down the middle with his impatience, but he silences any complaints Dean might have with more biting kisses, pushing him onto the bed and following him down; the springs groan their protest, not built for the weight of two.

The horizontal position brings their proximity even closer, impossible now to tell where one body ends and the other begins. They tangle together, hands grasping at flesh, feverish. The struggle for dominance is short-lived; Castiel briefly indulges Dean’s ego, lying supine beneath the pleasant weight of his body, but with an infinitesimal amount of effort he is back in control, straddling Dean’s hips. Their clothes are torn off and discarded without care, until every inch of them is pressed nakedly together, skin on skin. Castiel pauses for the first time since initiating this, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of Dean laid bare and spread out beneath him, flushed and breathless. _A masterpiece indeed_. He flattens Dean’s open palm out into the thin pillow beside his head, weaving his own fingers through the digits.

“Tell me,” he breathes it into the hollow of Dean’s throat, consumed by the need to _know_. “Tell me that this is what you want.”

“ _Yes._ ”

There is that word again, in all its might, and it is an ironic thing. For here is Dean Winchester, giving his consent and offering up his body for the taking; here is Heaven’s righteous man, saying _yes_ to an angel.

Castiel curls his free hand around Dean’s cock, stroking him in firm, measured movements. He drives his own erection into the space where Dean’s thigh meets the trunk of his body, graceless and animalistic. There are more satisfying ways of doing this, he knows; ways that would allow them to savor every moment, but they have never had the luxury of time. They are going to burn each other out, brighter than all of the Grace in Heaven.

“ _Fuck,_ Cas,” Dean gasps, and Castiel knows he is surprised. From their experiences at the brothel, he expected Castiel to be the blushing virgin, unsure and clumsy. But Castiel knows this body - he has pulled together its very fibers, stitched its muscles and bones and nerves and capillaries from the ashes of Hell. He has felt it break and splinter under his hands, too: a different kind of carnality.

Their bodies glide over one another on a film of sweat; Castiel thrusts down harder as Dean rocks upwards frantically, meeting him every time, and it is exquisite. He does not know the name for the emotion lighting up his core now: it is not love, and it is not hate; it is both, and neither, and something in between. Dean makes Castiel _feel_ more than any other being in all of Creation has ever been able, and brings out both the very best and the very worst in him, and still expects him to be better than he is, and Castiel does not know whether to consider himself blessed or damned to have been the one to pull him from perdition.

Hot and cold races under his skin, and he feels simultaneously too big for his vessel and more contained within it than ever before. Desperate now, he presses his open mouth against the place where he first touched Dean, when he raised him up from Hell. The mark has all but disappeared, faded to a pinkish-white patch of textured skin, but Castiel sees past the physical, and he has left his brand on Dean’s soul. He sinks his teeth into the flesh, possessive and hard enough to bruise, laying his claim all over again.

“ _Mine,_ ” he growls against Dean’s skin, saliva-damp, and Dean breathes out that same word again, “ _Yes_.”

Dean’s blunted fingernails screw into Castiel’s shoulder blades, breaking his human skin. “Say my name,” Castiel commands, without even knowing why, and Dean does: he gasps it again and again, until it becomes a mantra, a chant, a prayer, _Cas, Cas, Cas,_ and he stills and shudders, coming apart on a sob.

Castiel follows soon afterwards, still riding the crease of Dean’s hip, painting the slick stretch of Dean’s body with his release. It feels a little like falling all over again, but he finds that he doesn’t mind so much.

  


***

(Balthazar is both exactly the same as Castiel remembers him, and drastically changed by the years. The joviality has always been there, but the cynical twist that now accompanies it is new. He believes that he is following Castiel’s example, but in truth he is behaving more like Gabriel: a deserter, a runaway. His attitude forces Castiel to wonder how many others have misinterpreted his rebellion.

 _You seem very attached to those humans you run around with,_ Balthazar observes, a sly lilt in his words. Castiel has no answer for him, and changes the subject.

 _Give me the weapons, Balthazar,_ he demands, and is irritated when his brother’s response is to laugh.

 _Oh, Cas, I see you still have that stick up your arse. Perhaps Dean Winchester could find it for you._

 _Balthazar -_

 _I know, I know. You want the weapons._ Balthazar sighs, as though what Castiel is asking of him is deeply taxing. _Tell you what, let’s play a game: I’ll hide Daddy’s toys, all over the planet. If you find them, I’ll let you keep them, fair and square._

Castiel glares, wondering when this particular angel, once the closest of his brothers, had gotten so human. Balthazar pretends not to notice his annoyance. He talks with real enthusiasm now, warming to his theme.

 _Bet you I’ll win, though. We could even bring in a wager - how about your precious Dean’s soul?_

Castiel steps closer in warning. _I have already told you, brother; my debt to you is paid. If you touch him, I will not hesitate to kill you._

Balthazar laughs again; laughs and laughs, like this is the funniest thing he has ever heard. _You’re a terrible liar, Cas,_ he whispers, just before he winks out of sight. Castiel feels the threads of his wayward brother’s Grace stretching all the way to Taiwan, but he does not follow him there.)

***

“Dude,” Dean says some time later, “did we just have really hot, angry sex?”

“It would appear so.”

They lie in the same worn-out motel bed, side-by-side. Dean is still attempting to recover his breath; Castiel has never lost his. He studies the flaking paint on the ceiling instead, and considers the human act of copulation. On the whole, he found the experience immensely enjoyable, but he is not sure he would consider it so with anyone other than Dean.

“Awesome. You need to be mad at me more often.”

“I’m not sure that is possible. I am almost continually angry with you as things stand.”

Dean sobers at this, his overwhelming capacity for guilt surfacing. “Hey,” he says, and tugs Castiel closer, kissing him again. Where before it had been forceful and hostile, it is now slow, a thorough exploration. Dean’s tongue is a wet curl of heat tracing the edge of Castiel’s lower lip as Dean’s hand ghosts over his ribs. The connection between them is one that was forged on the battlefield, and this gentle intimacy is somehow stranger than the violent friction between them. Dean’s uncharacteristic vulnerability leaves Castiel floundering, lost at sea.

Dean pulls away with an unhappy noise, eyes flickering down and away from Castiel’s.

“I miss you.”

Dean would not be saying such things if his cerebral matter was not currently flooded with endorphins, but this fact does not make them any less true, and it does not make Castiel any less relieved to hear them.

“I am still here.”

Castiel reaches under the pillow where he knows Dean hides his knife as he sleeps, brings the blade out into the open. Dean’s eyes are upon it, wary, but he does not flinch, testament to his trust in Castiel.

“Uh, Cas? What are you doing?”

“When you pray to me,” Castiel begins, and Dean squirms uncomfortably.

“Dude, I don’t -”

“ _When you pray to me,_ ” Castiel repeats, and his voice is steel now, forcing Dean to _listen_ to him for once, “it is not… exclusive. All human prayers are audible to the entire Host at any one time. Most become lost, but there is a chance that one of Raphael’s forces could intercept our communications.”

He splits his arm open with the knife as he speaks, anoints his fingers in the blood that spills and begins to daub the appropriate Greek characters across Dean’s chest - _kappa, alpha, sigma, tau, iota, lambda_ \- before repeating the process in Hebrew, and then Aramaic.

“When you have need of me, write this on any surface, and I will come to you.”

Dean’s face screws up in distaste. “Does it have to be blood?”

“In theory, any bodily fluid will work. You may use semen instead, if you wish.”

“And they say you’re not the funniest angel in the garrison,” Dean mutters. He looks down at himself, raising an eyebrow at the markings on his skin. “No Enochian?”

“Language holds a great deal of power, but names hold more, I think. To use the angelic tongue would be to risk detection. Dean, it is important you understand; this is a powerful summoning spell. If you use it, I will have no choice but to appear. I therefore ask you to do so only in the case of emergencies.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean waves a hand lazily. “I’m still not sure I really get why I need to use it at all. Surely Raphael has better ways of finding you than through me?”

Castiel finds that he is not able to suppress the sigh that escapes him; he feels suddenly very weary. “How is your ancient Greek mythology?” He asks, but answers the question himself before Dean has chance to. “You are my Achilles’ heel, Dean, my greatest weakness. The only reason Raphael has not realized this yet is because it is entirely beyond his comprehension that an angel could ever feel so much for a human. But if he should find out, he will not hesitate to use you against me. And I will not allow any harm to come to you because of me.”

Dean’s eyes are wider than Castiel ever remembers seeing them; the flex of his throat when he swallows is an obvious thing. “Wow. That’s, uh… flattering, Cas. But I can take care of myself, you know.”

“There is considerable evidence that would seem to suggest the contrary.”

“Cute.”

Castiel takes a moment to study Dean; the deep bruises that underline his eyes, the tiny creases in his brow that were not there even when they were in the midst of the apocalypse. “You look tired,” he says, because he has never understood the need for the art humans know as ‘tact’. Dean laughs, though it is somehow a sad sound.

“Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head. It’s been a rough couple of months.”

And isn’t that an understatement? It has been a rough couple of years, a rough _lifetime_ for Dean Winchester, and things will only worsen in the foreseeable future.

“Sleep, Dean,” Castiel insists, and presses two fingers against the human’s forehead, banishing him to the deep recesses of unconsciousness before he can object. Castiel has always found Dean’s face to be doubly appealing in repose, and gazes on it a while. Dean is still and peaceful in a manner that he has never witnessed during his waking moments; mercifully _silent_ for a change, removed from his usual obstinacy and bull-headedness. Long eyelashes sweep the curve of his cheek, hiding the green of his irises, and his breath rolls in a slow, even cadence.

Castiel thinks, occasionally, that the emotion stirring inside of him whenever he watches Dean is the closest thing to love that he is capable of feeling.

He dresses the human way, stalling and delaying himself, though he will be long gone before Dean wakes up. Dean will undoubtedly be angry with him for it, but that is a fact to which Castiel has long since resigned himself.

He can hear the war cries of his brothers and sisters, summoning him to Nepal, Florence, Shanghai, Sao Paulo. The war rages on, and Castiel has work to do.

***

  


  
_Grace is a gift for the fallen, dear  
You’re an angry blade and you’re brave  
But you’re all alone_   


  


***

 **Notes:** _Atlas Telamon_ translates as ‘enduring Atlas’, and is a reference to the Greek mythological figure.

 _Kappa, alpha, sigma, tau, iota_ and _lambda_ are characters from the Greek alphabet that are here used (with a touch of artistic license) to spell ‘Castiel’ phonetically.


End file.
